


Digression

by KateAtTheClose



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Behind Enemy Lines, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:21:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateAtTheClose/pseuds/KateAtTheClose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Babe's day goes from bad to worse and soon both he and Gene end up in over their heads.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Digression

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after "The Breaking Point".

It was supposed to be easy.  Take the new replacement out to rendezvous with Fox Company just outside of town and mosey on back in the time it took Ramirez to make a steaming mug of terrible helmet coffee.  The fresh-faced replacement would get to practice carrying a gun, Babe would get to stretch his legs and Fox Company would get the intel that the 506th was moving out at 1600 hours.  It really had been, as far as Babe had been concerned, a pretty all-round good situation for everyone involved. 

 

Well, ‘good situation’ being pretty goddamn relative, of course.  His stomach had still been griping from whatever it was he had eaten for lunch, he could not remember the last time that he had taken a shower, he had no idea what the name was of the town that they were currently occupying and they were in the middle of a war.  On the bright side, there had been food in his belly, it had not been snowing or raining, there had been no shells falling and it had not been Bastogne.  It was all relative.

 

Babe shifted, biting back a cry of pain, his breath coming in shuddering gasps as he leaned his head back against the wall behind him and readjusted his grip on his M1.  As he kept his eyes on the lane and tried to take a breath deep enough to yell, he thought back to when the whole situation had just gone to hell. 

 

“So you’re from Philly, right?”  The replacement had asked, eyes darting back and forth under the rim of his helmet. 

 

“South Philly, yeah.”  Babe had squinted up at the grey sky and pretended not to notice how jittery Baker was. 

 

“I’m from Minnesota,” Baker had gone on, apparently oblivious to the fact that Babe had purposefully not asked where he was from.  It was too soon after Julian.  He had not wanted to know.  “I wanted to sign up sooner, but I had to graduate first.”

 

Babe had turned to tell the kid to shut the hell up, that he did not care, that he did not want to fucking  _know_ , and it had been in that moment he felt something punch into his shoulder from behind, and he had forgotten how to breathe.  Before he had been able to do, say or think much of anything, a hole had appeared in Baker’s head and he had crumpled to the ground.  Just like all this time instead of being a green kid from Minnesota just out of high school, he had just been a puppet and now his strings had been cut. 

 

Babe pressed his left hand to his right shoulder and propped his rifle on his knee, grip slippery with blood.  His right arm shook, weak, and Babe tried not to look at the kid lying on the street in front of him, bleeding and dead, while idly wondering if his own strings had been cut, too.   

 

He took a deep breath, the movement pulling on his shoulder and causing his face to screw up with pain, and realized he did not know which of the two things he had to yell should take precedence.  

 

“SNIPER!”  He yelled, squeezing his eyes shut and almost sobbing with the effort.  “SNIPER!”  

 

He paused for a moment, breathing hard and feeling the blood hot and sticky under his hand and down his back.  There were a few seconds of silence, and then he could hear shouts in the distance, moving towards the sound of his call.  Good. 

 

“MEDIC!”  Babe’s vision was marked with dark spots, the grey creeping in from the sides as if planning to tackle him as soon as he was distracted.  “Medic!”  His M1 was lying on its side, his hand loosely wrapped around it, the effort of holding it too much.

 

He could hear voices, but was not completely sure what they were saying.  They sounded English, so at least that was good.  The Kraut sniper must be all alone, then.  Babe’s eyes slid closed, the wall solid and cold behind him. 

 

“Babe!”  Something cold was tapping his cheek incessantly, and Babe turned his face away.  “Nuh-uh, ya don’t get away that easy.  Open your eyes, common.”

 

Suddenly, something pressed against his shoulder and agony bloomed down his front, back and side.  He gasped with pain, dragging his eyes open only to be completely disoriented when he found himself on his back and blinking up at Eugene Roe.

 

“It ain’t that bad, you’re all right.” Gene told him, his movements smooth and practiced as he tied a bandage securely across Babe’s shoulder. “Shot went through and through, you’re gunna be fine.”  His voice was warm and low and reassuring, and Babe closed his eyes again.  He was so cold. 

 

“Baker.”  Babe forced his eyes open, looking up at Gene.  Gene looked up from where he was rummaging through his medical bag, meeting Babe’s eyes. 

 

“He’s dead.  I checked.”  Quiet, but steady, Gene’s face a calm mask.  I know, Babe wanted to say, you can’t live with a bullet in your brain.  But he didn’t.  Because he knew what Gene had said was what he had needed to hear. 

 

“The sniper?”  Babe asked, remembering the boy with the hole in his head.

 

Johnny Martin leaned into Babe’s line of view, resting his hand on Babe’s good shoulder.  “We got ‘im, Heffron.  He was hidin’ out in one of those buildings behind the lane.”

 

Gene flicked on his lighter and Babe flinched as the bright light of the flame hit his eyes. “Look at the flame, that’s it.”  Gene snapped it closed, and Babe was left blinking, feeling strangely cold without Gene’s fingers gently holding his chin still, even though he knew Gene’s fingers were as cold as his were.  He could hear the rumble of a jeep’s motor approaching. 

 

Babe looked away when Baker’s body was loaded onto the front of the jeep, not needing to see.  The image of Baker’s young face, going immediately slack as a red hole appeared in his forehead, was one that would forever be imprinted onto his mind.  Like Julian, choking and bleeding and dying, still reaching out to him for help his was unable to give.  There were some memories Babe knew would haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life. 

 

Babe seemed to have a knack for getting replacements killed on his watch, and it made him feel absolutely ill. 

 

Gene said it was the blood loss.  Babe was inclined to agree with him, based on the amount of dark red coating the icy dirt around him, but knew his conscience would not let him off that easily.  Martin and Gene helped him into the back of the jeep after he refused to lie on a stretcher.  Babe had managed not to wince when Gene had stuck the plasma needle in his arm while holding the yellow bottle aloft, and was now concentrating on staying vertical in his seat.  His head had not agreed with his decision to go vertical, and had been threatening him with greying out ever since. 

 

Once the jeep started moving, the driver in the front with Baker’s body on the hood and Gene and Babe in the back, Babe was reconsidering his avoidance of lying horizontally.  He felt every jostle and bump of the jeep in his shoulder, and clenched his jaw to avoid crying out when they hit a pothole.  He almost did not notice when Gene wrapped a steadying arm around his back, but leant his head against Gene’s warm shoulder gratefully.   

 

They rounded a corner of the mostly deserted town, and the driver slammed on the breaks.  Babe gave a shout of pain as the whiplash drove his shoulder back against the seat behind him, and Gene’s arm tightened around him.  When he had forced open his eyes again, he saw why they had stopped. 

 

There were four German soldiers standing in the road, blocking their way.  Their guns were pointed steadily at the jeep. 

 

“Hey now buddy, we’re just goin’ to the Aid Station.”  The driver had his hands up, palms out, pacifying.  One of the Germans stepped forward, and Babe guessed he was an officer from the way his uniform had different coloured patches than the other three with him.  He said something, but Babe had no idea what it was.  He looked beside himself, and saw Gene, face pale, mouth a thin, set line, still holding the bottle of plasma.  His own gun was slung over his shoulder, but there was no way that he was going to be able to reach for it without them noticing.  Babe doubted that he would even be able to fire it with the way his shoulder throbbed and his arm lay useless on his lap. 

 

“Why don’t you just let us…”  The driver moved his hands towards the wheel, or perhaps towards the gun he had on his lap.  A shot rang out, the noise loud in the still air.  Babe wondered if they would be able to hear it across town where Easy was.  The driver slumped forward over the wheel, blood spreading across his back.

 

Gene moved forwards, even as Babe tried to grab him and hold him still, knowing immediately what his instincts would have him do and yet aware that moving was what had gotten the driver shot in the first place. 

 

“I’m a medic! Let me look at him!”  Gene called out to the Germans, holding up his medical bag and displaying the red cross on it.  “You have to let me help him.”  The Germans looked unsurprised that he was a medic, and Babe knew it had been fairly obvious that they were heading to an Aid Station.  “ _Je suis un médecin_ ,” Gene tried in French, “ _laissez-moi l'aider, s’il vous plaît!”_

 

The German officer shook his head, strode forward and dragged the driver out of the front seat by the front of his jacket.  The driver fell on his back to the ground, helmet rolling off, eyes glassy and unfocused, his chest still. 

 

No translation was needed for what he said next.  Babe knew he was dead.  Gene was frozen beside him, no doubt thinking that he could have done something to save him.  Babe saw the driver, half lying in a ditch, and thought it was easier when you did not know their names, when they were just faceless strangers in khaki. 

 

There were still guns trained on him.  The another one of the Germans moved forward and at a word from the officer, dragged Baker’s corpse off the hood and threw him next to the driver at the side of the road.

 

“You son of a bitch!”  Babe bit out, hand pressed against his bandage, glaring at them across the front of the car.  The guns pointed towards him and Gene did not waver, but Babe’s ire was otherwise ignored.  The German that had helped move the body stepped towards Gene, and said something to him.  When all he got was a dark look from Gene, he repeated what he said in broken French.

 

“ _Je suis un médecin,”_ Gene repeated, his voice low and tight. “ _Je ne porte pas un pistolet.”_ The German took the medical bag from Gene’s lap and rummaged through its contents.  Babe could tell how uneasy that made the medic, he scrounged and rationed and protected those meagre supplies with a seriousness warranted in the difference they made between life and death.  The German removed the syrettes and pocketed them, handing the bag back to Gene devoid of the precious morphine.  The German gestured at Babe.

 

“He wants your gun.”  Gene told him, moving his heavy gaze from the German to Babe.  Babe knew better than to refuse to hand it over, especially when there were four guns still pointed in his vicinity.  With some difficulty, he handed the rifle over, reluctantly parting from the one weapon that they had between the two of them.

 

“Let him go,” Gene said suddenly.  Babe looked at him, as did the German officer.  “ _Permettez-lui aller_.  He’s wounded,  _blessé,_  and needs help!”  Gene’s frustration at the was showing through in his rushed mixture of languages as he tried to get his point across and not sure which language was better understood, even gesturing with the hand not holding the plasma.

 

“ _Nein_.” The officer said, and Gene bit down on his bottom lip, silently fuming. 

 

“I’m alright.”  Babe lied, managing a breathy laugh.  “Barely hurts.”

 

“I had ta wait ‘til we got to the Aid Station ta give ya morphine,” Gene said quietly, looking sideways at Babe, quietly apologetic.  “In case ya hit your head on the way down.  And now I don’t have any.”  

 

Further conversation was cut short by the Germans moving towards the jeep and climbing in, forcing Gene and Babe tightly together and sitting on either side of them.  Their guns were a constant reminder, kept with the barrels flush against their ribs.

 

Pressed thigh to thigh, Gene wrapped his arm around Babe, protecting his shoulder from the German who sat tight against his other side.  Babe, dizzy and cold and light-headed from this turn of events, sank his head down against Gene’s shoulder again and closed his eyes as the jeep rumbled into motion, taking them away from Easy and towards the German camp. 

 

-

 

The reason for their abduction was made obvious when they reached the decrepit warehouse that the Germans were occupying.  About a dozen bodies lay on the floor, on tables and on chairs, some with blood seeping through bandages and others with merely their own uniform tops shredded and packed over their wounds.  Some were unconscious, but more were writhing in pain and calling out.  There were other soldiers trying to attend to them, but no men with red crosses on their arms to be found.  It was a gristly scene, and Babe sank down against the wall he was led to, guarded by a man with a rifle, wanting to cover his ears against the noise and bury his face in his knees so he would not have to see all the blood. 

 

Gene was led through the door at gunpoint, mostly empty medical bag hanging forlornly at his side.  He took in the scene, face pale and eyes dark, and tightened his jaw.  “Where are your doctors, medics, nurses?” Gene asked, but Babe knew he did not really expect an answer.  Babe had heard about Aid Stations and Hospitals getting shelled, all medical personal inside killed or captured, like what had happened in Bastogne.  He supposed similar things happened to the Germans.  Gene’s voice grew more pointed.  “Supplies?   _Les fournitures médicales._  Bandages?”

 

The officer gestured towards the wounded men, and the Germans standing behind Gene gave him a shove forwards.  “ _Vous aidez,_ ” said one of the guards in heavily accented French.  Gene leant over the nearest casualty, an unconscious man with a chest wound, and peeling off the blood-soddened bandage.  From where Babe was sitting, he could not see the wound, but he could see Gene’s tense, pale face.

 

“His insides are all ripped up, he needs surgery.”  Gene looked up at the German officer.  “He needs a surgeon,  _un docteur_ , and a hospital,  _un hôpital;_ I’m only a medic, I can’t fix this!”  He relayed the urgency in his voice, but when the German only looked pointedly at the red cross on Gene’s arm and his bag, Gene straitened up.  “No, you don’t understand, I ain’t a surgeon!  I can only help a little, you need ta evacuate these men ta a hospital-” The officer slapped Gene across the face with the hand holding his Luger.

 

“Gene!”  Babe shouted without thinking, and then found even more guns pointed at him.  Gene was pressing a hand to his cheek.  When he drew it away, Babe could see the gouge the weapon had made on his cheekbone. 

 

The officer was saying something to Gene in German, and gesturing to where Babe was held at gunpoint.  Suddenly, Babe understood why he was not lying at the side of the road with the driver and Baker.  The Germans needed Gene alive to help their wounded, but they did not need Babe.  They had brought Babe along to act as incentive for Gene to comply with their wishes.  If they felt that Gene was not doing as they asked, well, there was no need to keep Babe around any longer.  Babe understood this.  And, as he looked across the scattered bodies and drawn guns at Gene, he knew that Gene understood this as well.

 

“Alright,” Gene said, bending over the wounded man again, a grim look on his face.  He wiped blood off his cheek distractedly, surveying the damage done to the chest in front of him.  “Alright.”  He tucked the bandage carefully back over the wound, and then quickly surveyed the room. 

 

Gene opened his medical bag and pulled out the handful of bandages it contained.  “Bandages.  I need more of these.   _J'ai besoin d'encore.”_   He mimed threading a needle and sewing to the watching Germans.  “Thread.  And a sharp needle.”  Gene paused, and then rubbed his hands as if washing them.  “Water, lots of it.   _D’eau.”_  He mimicked drinking.  “Alcohol,  _vin,_ and any drugs ya got _._ ”  He let his hands fall to his sides, watching as the German officer ordered two of his men into action.  “And give me my goddamn morphine back!”

 

Babe could not help but laugh despite himself, and Gene sent him a stern look, but Babe thought his expression might have softened a little. 

 

“I shoulda known that after getting shipped all the way over to Europe all we’d be doin’ was playin’ charades.”  Babe managed a grin, his shoulder throbbing.  Gene’s mouth tilted into a slight smile, but then he started moving between the casualties, peeking under bandages, looking under eyelids, feeling pulses and listening to breathing.  Gene went about his rudimentary triage, instructing the German soldiers how to help him through a strange mixture of English, French and hand gestures.  Babe sat with his back against the wall of the dingy warehouse with the gun pointed at his head, and breathed through the pain in his shoulder.  He felt as if he should be helping, but when he had tried to push himself upright his head had started spinning, his shoulder flared in agony and the German pointing a gun at him shouted something at him.  So no moving for him, then.  Gene looked over at him occasionally, concerned and with eyes flicking to the gun pointed at Babe’s head and then went back to his forced work with renewed grim determination. 

 

Babe was always amazed at how Gene’s voice was able to calm people.  He had seen it many times among Easy, how panicked shouts for a Medic slicing the air converted into calm reassurances in Gene’s steady, low, Cajun-accented voice.  It was not just the wounded man who was calmed, but those around him as well.  They would step back, sure in the knowledge that Doc and Spina were there, and listen for the stern commands that would allow them to help.  Babe knew there was value in the knowledge that something was getting  _done_ , he had spent enough time sitting around useless since joining the military to have any doubts in that, but Gene with his easy assurances and soft voice had some power that was even more than that. 

 

Babe watched how when one man suddenly stopped breathing, airway blocked from the bleeding and swelling in his throat, Gene felt down what was left of his throat, stabbed in with his scissors, and put the empty tube of one of his iodine swabs in his throat, allowing the man to breath through the hole.  There had not been much time for feelings of success – in the time it took Gene to stand up and brush a hand across his forehead, another man had stopped breathing, and he had not started again. 

 

He was not the only man who died.  Another bled to death despite the pressure bandages and tourniquet.  Another, with a red-drenched white bandage wrapped around his head, had become unresponsive and a few hours later his body quietly shut down.  Babe watched as Gene picked out shrapnel, sprinkled sulfa powder, injected what little morphine he had to those who needed it most, stitched up holes in flesh and wrapped limbs in bandages.  All the while Gene would be murmuring that “it ain’t that bad, that’s it, you’re gunna be fine, hold on now, it ain’t that bad…” even though he knew that the Germans were either too distracted to understand him, or spoke neither of the languages he was muttering in. 

 

Babe did not notice it getting dark, but when it became difficult to distinguish Gene from the other shapes around him he blinked his dry eyes and pressed a hand to his shoulder.  He did not realize that he had not looked up again until he felt a hand on his good shoulder.  Startled, he looked up only to find Gene crouching next to him. 

 

“How ya feelin’?”  Gene asked, voice soft.  It had gotten dark enough that even a foot away Babe could not make out his expression.

 

“Like some Kraut shot me through shoulder.”  Babe replied wryly, looking up past Gene to where the Germans were speaking quietly to each other.  “They finally lettin’ you take a break?” 

 

“I did the best I could, they’re all bandaged up, and I can’t do no more in the dark, anyway.”  Gene sounded exhausted. 

 

“Follow.”  One of the Germans was gesturing for them to move, his voice so heavily accented it took Babe a moment to understand what he was saying.

 

“Hey, English!  Where’ve you been this whole time, buddy?”  Babe asked as Gene tucked an arm around his waist and helped him stand.  The world swung around lazily as his blood loss made itself known again, but he managed to stay standing by leaning heavily on Gene.  Unsurprisingly, the German did not reply. 

 

They were led down a hall to what Babe assumed must have at one time been a storage room.  As they were herded inside, Babe demoted its previous status to that of a storage closet.  It was more like a square, dark, windowless box than anything else, and when the Germans swung the heavy door shut and swung a deadbolt into place, Babe could see it bore definite resemblance to a cell. 

 

Surrounded by darkness, the only sound that of his and Gene’s breathing echoing off the walls, Babe felt more claustrophobic than he ever had before in his life.  Even packed with the other guys like sardines in a C-47 with all his jump gear at Holland, Babe had felt like he had more space than he did now.  He felt his way over to the wall and slid down it, hoping there was no rat he was disturbing.  Because that was all he needed, rat shit on his ass.  He leant his head back against the wall and put a hand over his bandaged shoulder, breathing out through the pain.  He reflected on all the walls that he had leaned against in the last twenty four hours, and decided that he was getting really goddamn tired of them.  Then again, it was not a foxhole, he was dry if not particularly warm, he was not getting shelled and it was not Bastogne.  It really was all relative.

 

Suddenly, Gene’s face was thrown into light as he flicked on his lighter.  The flame danced between them, highlighting Gene’s cheekbones and making his eyes shining pools of darkness.  Babe was immeasurably relieved, the flame and assurance that he was not alone in this dark, airless box soothed his anxieties.

 

“Hold this.” Gene said, forcing Babe to remove his left hand from the bandage at his right shoulder and take the lighter from him.  Gene dove his hand into his bag, and pulled out his needle, thread, a fresh bandage, sulfa tablets and, surprisingly, a morphine syrette. 

 

“Where’d you get those?”  Babe asked, certain he had scene Gene use up his limited supplies on the German casualties. 

 

“Saved them for you.”  Gene replied, pushing Babe’s hand gently higher so that the light fully reached his shoulder.  He started undoing the bandage.  Babe winced when the fabric pulled at his wound, his shoulder throbbing along with his heartbeat.  There was silence as Babe bit his bottom lip so as not to cry out when the bloody bandage was tugged away from his skin.

 

“You know why I called out about the sniper first?”  Babe said, rather suddenly, causing Gene to glance up at him from where he was bent low near Babe’s shoulder, trying to clean the wound in the light from the small flame. 

 

“I thought you called for a sniper after Baker got hit, and for me after you got shot.”  Gene’s face was a mask of tight-lipped concentration as he tilted Babe’s body forwards so he could get at the exit wound. 

 

“Nah, we were both hit at the same time.”  Babe tried not to think of Baker, the high-school graduate from Minnesota with a bullet through his head.  “I yelled sniper first ‘cause I didn’t want him to get you once I yelled for a medic.”

 

Gene paused in his dabbing at the wound, and Babe wished he was not bent behind him so that he could see his face.  After a moment he started again, tugging Babe’s wrist higher so that he had better visibility.  “I’m real good at dodgin’.” Gene softly replied. 

 

“I thought I was too.”  Babe told the darkness in front of him, and he did not receive an answer from Gene.

 

“Here, swallow these.”  Gene passed forward the sulfa pills.  “Take ‘em with water if you got any.”  Babe did not, and he swallowed them dry. 

 

“I’m gunna give you some morphine before I stitch you up.”  Gene told him, and Babe barely felt the prick of the syrette as it entered high up on his shoulder, near his neck.  “It ain’t gunna hurt.”

 

Babe thought he would fall asleep as soon as the morphine hit.  He did not, at least at first.  He drifted, mind sifting through a million thoughts and not resting on a single one.  Snow, was a thought that stuck.  Julian, another.  Baker.  His apparent talent for getting replacements killed. 

 

“It ain’t your fault.”  Gene said, his voice soft but firm.  “You weren’t the one who shot him.”

 

Babe was not aware that he had said anything out loud, but supposed Gene was right.  He had not shot Baker, or Julian.  Just watched while they died. 

 

Babe was listlessly aware that Gene was sewing up his shoulder.  He only felt strange tugs at his back, but when Gene moved to the front of his shoulder, he watched as the needle went in and out of his skin and marvelled at it. He did not see Gene finish, but instead let his eyes drift close. 

* * *

He was not sure what woke him.  His shoulder was a steady dull ache, and his cheek was nestled against something warm, and there was a comfortable weight over his back.  Babe exhaled in contentment, nuzzling in closer to whatever it was. 

 

“Common Babe, they’re gunna be comin’ in here soon.”  The low, accented voice was tinged with fond amusement, and Babe felt the reverberations against his cheek.  There were gentle fingers carding through his hair. 

 

“Just a lil’ bit longer.”  Babe muttered, and could have sworn that he heard a soft laugh. 

 

“I can hear the Germans movin’ around.”  Gene’s voice was now a bit more reserved, and Babe felt the hand pause against his head. 

 

There were muted sounds from out in the corridor, muffled by the heavy door.  Babe blinked open his eyes, startled for a moment and fearing blindness, but then remembering that the thick darkness was just because there was no windows for natural light to enter the room.  He tried to lift his head, but regretted the decision when pain sparked up from his shoulder.  Gene helped him to sit up, but kept his arm around his back, kept Babe close to him. 

 

The door was sung open, and Babe had to cringe at the light.  He was dragged to his feet, and away from Gene, pushed unkindly through the door and led to the wall of the warehouse where he had spent his hours yesterday.  There was a different soldier guarding him today, but the same type of rifle pointed at his head.  He saw Gene being led out after him, firmly escorted to where the bloody men were waiting for his continued care.  The soldiers beckoned him with words Babe did not understand and harsh gestures, demanding his best efforts with wounds that Gene was not qualified to treat.  But Gene would look over to where Babe was being held at gunpoint, and he would turn back to the bodies.

 

The other German soldiers had been keeping watch over the wounded men in the dark, Babe gathered, but had been unable to do much since their sight was limited to a lighter’s flame.  Now Gene’s limited knowledge was being put to the test once again, while Babe watched.  They both knew that as soon as the German’s thought Gene was holding back, Babe would be dead.  They also knew that as soon as Gene stopped being useful, they were both dead.

 

-

 

The second day went by slowly.  Babe and Gene were not offered food when the Germans ate their rations, a cold reminder that the Germans were not planning on keeping them alive long.  They had both run out of water the day before, and Babe knew from basic training that you could only survive three days without water. 

 

Gene moved over and checked Babe’s shoulder in the daylight.  He was only allowed a short time before he was forced away from the younger man.  Up close, Babe could see the dark circles under Gene’s eyes and the black eye above the cut to his cheekbone.  He wanted to ask if he had slept at all the night before, but kept his mouth shut.  He could tell that the medical bag that hung at Gene’s side was empty.

 

“There ain’t anymore I can do.”  Gene’s voice was strained, exhausted, as he leaned in close to survey the stitches while hiding them from the Germans’ view.  Babe knew Gene was not talking about him, but about the German casualties their lives depended on Gene saving.  “There just ain’t anymore I can do for them.  Some of them will be okay, but others… unless they get to a surgeon at a real hospital…”

 

He did not have to finish.  Gene had barely rewrapped the bandage when he was being pulled away. 

 

It was about the middle of the afternoon, as far as Babe could tell from the grey light that streamed through the dirty warehouse windows, when the ground suddenly shivered beneath him.  Debris rained down from the roof, barely able to land in on the men below before there was an explosion nearer by, and the walls shook once more.  Again, then again, the roof creaking, one of the walls exploding inwards, sending dirt and stone and wood flying.  The Germans were shouting, leaning over the wounded men, ducking under cover, leaning against walls.  Next to Babe, the guard pressed himself against the wall and covered his head with his arms.

 

And, for a brief moment, Gene and Babe were forgotten about.  Through the chaos and destruction of the shelling, Gene’s eyes met Babe’s.  Babe shoved himself to his feet with his one usable arm, gritting his teeth against the pain in his shoulder and ducking as a thundering crash echoed around him, pieces of the roof shattering down around him.  He made it to the doorway to the corridor, having to pause to lean against the door as dust clogged his throat and he could not breathe.  He clutched the doorway, coughing and gagging, and then there were supporting hands under his arms, tugging him up and away, supporting him as they stumbled along, bent over and sheltering their heads and necks with their arms. 

 

They turned at the end of the corridor, looking for an exit, but there were shouts from behind him, of pursuit or fear Babe could not know, and they threw open a door and were inside before they found it a dead end, an office, with an empty desk and scattered file cabinets. 

 

A shell exploded too near them, the shock wave sending them to the ground in a crumpled heap, the impact jarring Babe’s shoulder and causing him to scream out in pain.  Babe was barely aware that he was being dragged, until he found himself on his back, with a slender body covering him, protecting him, sheltering him, his head – and he had a strange moment where he wondered where his helmet was – shoved painfully against a desk leg, the edge digging into his scalp.

 

Another crash shook them together.  Babe opened his eyes, looked up to see Gene’s arm over Babe’s face, Gene’s dark, beautiful eyes down next to his, the bottom of the desk visible above them both.  Something slammed against the top of the desk, and Babe’s fingers curled into Gene’s hips, not sure when he had put his hands there.  There was a loud, splitting noise, and some large, heavy, solid object fell towards them, landing with a shuddering crash next to the desk, a drawer swinging out and inches away from crushing Babe’s leg.  He curled even more into Gene, their legs somehow intertwined, their bodies pressed together, muscles reflexively tight and cringing as an explosion rocked the room around them.

 

There was an ominous cracking sound, and Babe knew it had to be the roof.  He threw his face to the side and his nose brushed Gene’s.  Babe froze, and Gene steadily met his eyes, the two of them still and clutching each other as the world crumbled to pieces around him.  Their faces were close enough to touch; Babe could feel the warm softness of Gene’s breath on his cheek.  They stayed like that a moment, as the ground quivered and shook beneath them with the force of exploding shells.  Gene’s eyes were dark and full of things Babe would have given anything to know. 

 

Then there was a resounding crash from somewhere in the building, and it was all the prompting Babe needed as he tilted his face forwards and caught Gene’s lips with his.  He suddenly became vividly aware of every inch of skin they had in contact, a hand sliding up Gene’s back to pull him even closer, even as his other hand slid into the curve of his spine as if it was meant to be there.  Gene’s hand had found Babe’s hair, and dug in above his ear, cradling the side of his face while tilting it to the side for better access to his mouth. 

 

Gene kissed like he was breathing, all fluid movements and vital intensity, somehow incorporating his whole body into it.  Babe just wanted  _more_ : more contact, more closeness, more of everything.  More of Gene. 

 

Gene’s other hand slid down Babe’s side, ghosting over ribs and military-issue khaki and then up again, slipping under his uniform top and catching on his waistband.  His thumb traced senseless patterns on the soft skin it found there, in the gap between pants and shirt, sending shivers up and down Babe’s spine even as he burned with want and need. 

 

Suddenly, something smashed into the top of the desk causing two of its legs gave way under the force of impact.  Gene and Babe were forced to break apart as it and the weight pressing down on it came crashing down on them.  They were pressed so tightly together and to the ground that the space caused by the remaining two legs of the desk saved them from getting crushed, but Gene gave a pained gasp as he took the brunt of the pressure.    

 

“Gene?” Babe shouted to be heard above the din, even though he held the other man’s body in his arms.  When Gene did not respond right away, Babe felt something twist in his gut, and his heart seemed to have taken up residence somewhere in his windpipe.  “Gene!”

 

There was another few moments, where Babe listened to his surroundings explode and cared nothing about it, his attention solely focused on the face turned away from his.  Then, finally, Gene took a stuttering deep breath and coughed weakly into Babe’s shoulder, back tense and shaking under Babe’s hands.   

 

Then, astoundingly, the shelling stopped. 

 

It was not total silence; there was the rumbling sound of structures giving way, the crash of things falling to the ground, the creak of foundations under strain. 

 

Gene shrugged under and out of some of the debris, sliding himself slowly sideways off Babe, who scrambled to push the wooden ceiling of the desk up and away, only to be painfully reminded of his wounded shoulder.  When Gene had slipped out, he helped pull Babe out behind him, always mindful of his hurt shoulder. 

 

It seemed disarmingly to Babe almost as though the enthusiastic kissing of a few moments before had not happened at all – that he had simply dreamed it, in an interlude of madness.  Then Gene’s thumb drifted across Babe’s neck as he made sure Babe’s bandage was still in place, and Babe was bombarded with sense memory that tingled through him and left him wishing they were pressed together again.  Babe looked up at Gene’s face, and saw his red-tinged, very kissed lips even as they were drawn together in concentration.  Unable to resist, Babe leaned forwards and pressed his lips to Gene’s, reaching up and feeling the soft, soft dark hair at the back of Gene’s head. 

 

This kiss was gentler than the first, a little more hesitant, searching, seeking for the knowledge that they still had this, that it could happen again, that it was not just limited to instances of mortal peril.  Gene made a small noise in the back of his throat, needy, and Babe smiled against his lips.  Their lips parted after a moment, but they stayed drawn together like that, Babe’s face tilted, Gene’s quiet and close, just breathing and  _alive._

 

Then Gene was fiddling with the bandage again, and Babe was willing to sit back and let him, realizing how much his shoulder ached and stung and appreciating adrenaline for not letting it distract him at inopportune moments, like when he was kissing Gene Roe.

 

And that is how they were, Babe leaning against yet another wall, Gene gently retying his bandage, when the soldiers burst through the door. 

 

“Americans?”  Came the surprised voice from the doorway, a voice speaking highly appreciated English.  “What the fuck are you doing here?” 

 

“Captured, they needed a medic.”  Babe answered, gesturing vaguely at Gene, feeling rather stunned.  “And what the fuck are  _you_  doing here?”

 

“First Canadian Infantry with the twenty-first Army,” said one of the men in the doorway.  “We’re clearing this building.”

 

“Found a room fulla dead Krauts, and we weren’t really expecting to find anyone else.”  The other man in the other doorway continued, round face quirked up into a smile.  “We shelled this ol’ warehouse up good, most of the roof is gone.” 

 

“I’m amazed you fellas managed to stay alive.”  The first Canadian said, and Babe smiled.

 

“We’re real good at dodgin’.”  Babe said, and Gene looked sideways at him as he put on his helmet after he managed to wrestle it out of a pile of debris, his dark eyes sparkling.

 

-

 

The 1st Canadian sent them to an Aid Station, where the doctor looked over Gene’s handiwork on Babe’s shoulder and declared that he was in fine form.  The doctor noticed the way Gene was hunching with his arms around his chest, and made him take his shirt off.  Gene had a startling motley of bruises on his back from when the desk had collapsed on top of him and two cracked ribs. 

 

They spent two days at the Aid Station, where they were given hot food and Gene could restock his medical bag.  A jeep was found that could take Gene to meet up with Easy while arrangements were made for Babe to be shipped to a hospital further off the line for rest and recuperation.  When Gene’s jeep showed up, Babe got in beside him.  Gene had simply looked at him and smiled. 

 

“Ain’t I only supposed to be takin’ one guy to Hageneau?”  The driver was fiddling with the gearshift. 

 

“Nah, two.  What, they mess up the paper work again?”  Babe asked, all faux exasperation.

 

“That’s probably it.” The driver said, resigned.  He pulled away and the jeep’s motor rumbled beneath them.  “They’re always messin’ that shit up.”

 

Babe gently knocked his knee against Gene’s as the jeep bounced down the road towards Easy Company.

 


End file.
